Fallowers
Tears,awashed, Raindrops on windows, Closed shuttered hearts, Like blind eyes, Of empty houses. Faces, blank, Souls are not unlike, desolate deserts, Empty of life, Dry and barren. Aimless we search, For what? Salvation of man, The demons mock. A line of hunger, Stretched into the horizon, Muted puppets, Playing someone else's game, Not our own. Destruction! Its own form of release, Into the pits of Hell, Blindly we follow, The, Piper, Lucifer.I Chose salvation as my theme, or lack there of © on Nov 13 2001 02:19 PM PST, Phyllis Thompson angst • dark
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"Tears,awashed,..."